


This World Is Rabid

by nameloc_ar_115



Series: Things That Go Bump in the Night [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel Derek Hale, Angelic Celibacy, Blasphemy, Coming Untouched, Competing for Scott's Soul, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Denial of Feelings, Horns, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Nephilim, Non-consensual Nicknames, Oral Sex, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Religious Mythology, Reluctant Fondness, Season 3A Alternate Universe, Sexual Coercion, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John and Noah, Slight Case of Stalking over Millennia, Soul Touching, Spontaneous Orgasm, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Scott McCall, Wings, Working with the Enemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: “You want to defile me—because I am an agent of Heaven. You mean to mock God and desecrate all that is sacred.”Stiles cocked his head to the side. “Ummm—no. You’re grumpy in the sexiest way possible, and I want to give you orgasms. That’s the extent of my villainy.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My angel/demon mythology in this fic is a mishmash of lore presented in Good Omens (Neil Gaiman), Supernatural, Judeo-Christian mythology, and just a dash of Constantine (2005).

               Beacon Hills, Beacon County, California, United States of America, North America, the Northern Hemisphere.

               Earth.

               Derek sighed as he tuned his hearing to Scott McCall’s voice, following the echo back to a twilit, suburban street in a town of thirty thousand people. Minus one hundred non-human entities, give or take. That statistic alone legitimized the angel’s reluctance. What kind of town boasted a ratio like that?

               As he passed through Heaven’s threshold and entered Earth’s atmosphere, his essence corporealized, falling hundreds of thousands of feet to its precise destination. Faster than light, softer than a raindrop. His wings expanded a fraction of a second before impact to ease his landing.  

               The air was warm and dry, unchanging in this region. Derek preferred the seasonality and humidity of the east coast, the kiss of moisture on his skin during the summer nights. However, the climate was the least vexing aspect of this assignment.  

               The tasks that no one else wanted fell to him, and not because he lacked seniority. Derek didn’t socialize well, jaded by both the sociopaths and the sycophants of his race, some of whom held important and prestigious positions within the celestial host. The few rotten apples, as susceptible to corruption and violence as the humans they considered so inferior, had ruined the bunch for him. The hypocrisy was too much to swallow, and its bitter aftertaste had left him in an everlastingly foul mood around his kin.

               Yet, despite his surliness and standoffishness—bordering on insubordination and impertinence on his worst days—the higher-ups couldn’t ignore that he produced results and completed his missions without complaint. All that he asked for in return was solitude, during and between assignments.

               Perhaps the most irritating part of this _errand_ was that Scott McCall wasn’t even a human anymore. Heaven’s jurisdiction technically didn’t extend to supernatural creatures, but someone in senior management had taken a special interest. Apparently, this boy, this novice werewolf, was a key participant in the salvation or preservation of humanity. So, now Derek had to babysit him until the arisen kink in the divine plan was straightened out.

               Heaven and Hell were pretty evenly matched, in resources, intel, manpower. Part of the reason this war between them was _still_ going strong without a victor in sight. Naturally, Heaven’s focus on Scott McCall provoked Hell’s notice. Back and forth, tit for tat, and on and on and on. The authorities Below would send a demon after the werewolf to counteract Derek’s own presence, to try and sway events in Hell’s favor.

               A significant decision awaited McCall, impending and irreversible. Derek had descended from Above and joined the Earthlings to ensure this seventeen-year-old boy made the right choice— _Heaven’s_ choice—and was not led astray.

               Derek blipped from the street into Scott’s bedroom, keeping himself cloaked from Earthly eyes, simply taking stock of his charge and the surroundings. It always went without saying; don’t intervene unless absolutely necessary. He had sustained enough lectures about free will and memory purging to last him an angelic lifetime.  

               The teenager sat at his desk, incorrectly graphing a polynomial function for his pre-calculus homework, while his best friend, Lydia Martin, flipped through a magazine on his bed, legs kicking gently in the air.

               They were decent humans, Derek admitted, especially for postpubescents. Far more admirable than a lot of his own siblings. With the help of only a few other adolescents, the pair had saved their town from supernatural tragedies a handful of times already.

               Derek knew this assignment was supposed to demean him, add insult to injury, standing watch over a child whose soul would probably never be allowed to enter Heaven anyway. Nonetheless, Scott McCall had an impressive file. Bitten and turned at sixteen, learning to control and suppress his bloodthirsty urges without a single lupine brother or sister to ease him through the transition. Only a tiny redhead, too smart for her contemporaries, too loyal and brave to abandon her friend despite the dangerous supernatural energy that seemed to _converge_ upon their town.  

               Derek settled into the armchair in the corner of the room. His orders required him to maintain a proximity to his charge until the end of the assignment, no trips to Heaven in the interim.

               Quiet hours ticked by, homework finished, dinner eaten, teeth brushed before bed. Scott twitched every so often, rather like a canine, to Derek’s amusement, but slept peacefully enough.

               At ten after midnight, a pebble _ping_ ed off Scott McCall’s bedroom window. The boy released a smothered, subconscious whimper into his pillow before drifting back into a deep slumber. Derek rose as a second collided with the windowpane, thinking it maybe the girlfriend, Allison, the werewolf hunter. (That irony seemed a little too cruel, even for his Father.) He visited Earth enough to know that lovesick teenagers often employed such tactics to engage in late-night trysts.

               The third stone tapped the glass as soon as Derek stopped in front of the window, hitting the level of his reflected jaw. The streets appeared empty and silent, and to any human passerby, they _were._ But Derek saw a flash of gleaming, white teeth in the moonlight, twin points amidst chestnut locks, opaque smoke curling inside of empty eye sockets.

               Derek cursed, his cheeks flaming afterwards in frustrating self-reproach. Why _him_? Of all the underlings Hell could have appointed, _why him_? He supposed a minor annoyance to a servant of Heaven counted as a petty triumph for Hell.

               “What do you want?” he growled, teleporting into the middle of the street, keeping several feet between himself and the demon.

               The damned soul in front of him appeared no older than Scott, but he had been roaming the planes of existence for _a long time._ Derek, even longer. 

               The demon’s smile broadened, chiseling out his dimples, his depthless eyes almost sparkling with pleasure. “I’m working. Same as you.”

               Derek sighed, crossing his arms. He was utterly _not_ in the mood. “Your work doesn’t demand that you toss pebbles at my charge’s window in the middle of the night.”  

               “Uh, uh, uh,” the demon objected, holding up a slender, bony finger. “ _Our_ charge. Once again, circumstances have forced us to compete for a soul.”

               “Strange how often _circumstances_ force us together. At least every century, in fact,” Derek remarked dryly.

               The hellion shrugged, the picture of faux innocence. The horns sprouting an inch above the crown of his skull somewhat ruined the innocuous image the demon was trying to project, but only _just._ “I _might_ have cashed in a few favors to wriggle into this assignment, but you should’ve expected me. Seriously, Angelcake. Temptation and Corruption is my department.”

               The abomination had a point. Over the millennia, Derek had gleaned hints about the demon’s job from their “chance” encounters. Besides the little monster’s tendency to overshare (to chatter seemingly until the End of Days), Heaven’s reconnaissance team routinely provided information about Hell’s innerworkings to field angels like himself to aid in future missions.

               The department in question specialized in submission. Submission to desires, big and small. Demons, such as the one standing before him on the sun-beaten blacktop, coaxed humans into succumbing with subtle manipulations. Words, displays, or events that appeared random or coincidental to a human but were really implemented at the most opportune time, intending to set an individual on a path to sin and damnation. Intervention always occurred close to that precarious, fragile moment—the breaking point—when a person chose to abstain or indulge.

               Theft, adultery, bribery, embezzlement, broken vows of celibacy, gambling, addiction and relapse, fraud, cheating. Just a few examples of the department’s efforts. Intricate and painstaking work, Derek knew, and the probability of success for Hell only fifty-fifty. Work for lower-level demons, the grunts of Hell. (Not that Derek belonged to the upper echelons of Heaven himself.) If nothing else, they earned the souls they dragged to Hell, by the sweat of their brows and the strain of their powers.

               “I’m not playing your game tonight, Mieczysław. I’m leaving.” Derek extended his wings, as fine-textured and black as coal dust, spreading six feet from root to tip in both directions.

               “Wait,” the demon called, raising his hands in a peaceable motion. “I’ll skip to the meat of the matter.” The little monstrosity grimaced as an afterthought, upturned nose scrunching. “Y’know, I’ve been asking you to call me ‘Stiles’ since the beginning, and you never listen.”

               Derek huffed. “Nicknames are for friends. We are not friends.”

               Stiles’ mouth pushed into a faint pout, sinful (the very _definition_ ), pink lips drawing even more attention to themselves. The creature’s vessel was no coincidence, young and beautiful, _designed_ to entrap. It was the honeypot, so sweet, so intoxicating, that the fly only realized its mistake once it was already drowning. “We could be,” the demon insisted, thrusting his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “If you’d stop resisting me.”

               Derek felt his eyes, pearly pools of celestial essence, glow fiercely bright with aggravation. “Stiles.” He relented, if only to deter further complaining. “ _What_ do you want?”

               “I want to help you.” The creature offered a seemingly sincere smile, and Derek couldn’t quite pinpoint a crack in the façade, the giveaway that revealed the duplicity underlying Stiles’ porcelain features. It was beyond unsettling. Either Derek’s senses were dulling, or—

               Instead of giving _that_ possibility another moment’s thought, he hissed, “You are a perversion of the human soul. The Morningstar’s drone. Why would I want your help?”

               The acidity of his tone didn’t have the desired effect. Stiles giggled. “You always say the sweetest shit to me, babe. Inconceivable as it may seem to you, I _do_ want to help you. I’m willing to cede Scott McCall’s soul to you, without fuss or opposition.” The demon bowed, arms sweeping in a flourish, to emphasize his apparent graciousness.

               Suspicion lodged its hooks into Derek. His eyebrows bunched together on his forehead, lips pursing, before he could smooth his expression. “Why?” The shock had disarmed him. His face had given too much away. Demons fed on involuntary cues, secrets, the things one wanted to remain hidden and used them to taunt and exploit.

               “Don’t hurt yourself searching for the source of my selflessness. I’m proposing an arrangement, a _deal_ , a mutually beneficial endeavor.” Stiles stepped forward, too close, but retreat indicated fear, and Derek would not be cowed by a stalker in a schoolboy’s guise.

               This close, the demon’s eyes were so black, they almost seemed… _pure._ An obscene thought. A blasphemous thought. No purity could be found in the abomination.

                “What makes you think I need your help at all?” Derek muttered, nostrils flaring from Stiles’ smoky scent. More bonfire, less inferno and brimstone.

               The demon hummed. “You do have an impressive success rate. What, about ninety percent?” Derek neglected to respond. “But the other ten percent. Your failure rate. Who’s responsible for that?” The demon bit his bottom lip, looking up at him from under his eyelashes, the corners of his lips curled with unmistakable smugness.  

               Derek gritted his teeth. The coy, coquettish act made his skin crawl with revulsion just as much as a brazen, lascivious one would. A whore was a whore was a whore. “I can save his soul without you.”

               “Two days, Feathers. That’s when Scott McCall reaches his crossroads. You’ve never come out on top in an assignment we’ve shared.” The demon’s face fell, sobering, all hints of amusement and arrogance gone. He enunciated, speaking with clarity and purpose, the sooty pits of Stiles’ eyes somehow connecting with his. Derek could _feel_ it. “If you go against me, you will lose this soul. And the boy may be more important than your bosses let on.”

               Derek narrowed his eyes. “You are a deceiver.”

               “Like I said, I called in _a_ _lot_ of favors to snag this gig.” The demon’s lips grazed his ear, a powerful, sinewy arm wrapping around him to cup the back of his skull, keep him in place. Derek almost broke the embrace but faltered when Stiles whispered, “The boy must choose the righteous path.”

               Treason. The words were treason, incriminating enough to motivate any tattletale within an eavesdropping radius to run to the underlords. Stiles would spend the rest of his existence in torment, the sort that not even a creature of Hell would enjoy. It was _beyond_ counterintuitive to accept a demon’s words as truth; it was _suicidal_ , and yet, Derek couldn’t ignore Stiles’ willingness to risk his own safety. For the greater good, no less.

               The demon relinquished his grip and backed away, his hand taking far longer than necessary to slide from Derek’s body. Stiles’ eyes settled on his face, probing for comprehension.

               “I still don’t understand,” Derek murmured. With a healthy dose of skepticism, he could accept, for now, that Stiles cared about the outcome of a showdown between two werewolves in a small Californian suburb. But for what reason?  

               A warm breeze tousled their hair, causing the demon’s eyes to slip shut and a pleasurable shiver to ripple across his skin. For good measure, Stiles let his head loll in a relaxed circle on his shoulders, exposing his slim, pale throat. The movements were purposefully seductive, _tiresome_ to Derek _,_ although he could hardly blame the creature. Allure was Stiles’ nature, his specific skillset. The little demon dealt in temptation and enticement, and yet, his expertise was inconsequential here and now. Wasted.

               Derek belonged to a futile demographic. He batted away any and all carnal ideas with the same ease one would a gnat. Prurience, sensuality—these were human concepts.

               Stiles opened his eyes on a sigh. “I don’t want the world to end. It’s _waaaaay_ better up here than in Hell. Plus _,_ it’s gonna shape up to be a crazy millennium. Can’t you feel it?” 

               Derek unceremoniously shoved the creature’s small talk to the side and snapped, “Are you telling me that if Scott McCall kills this alpha, he will start the Apocalypse?”

               The black gape of Stiles’ eyes widened. Without actual eyeballs, the gesture primarily relied on the rise of eyebrows, the retraction of eyelids. The demon clapped a hand over his mouth with enough speed and force to leave Derek’s lips tingling. “Are you _trying_ to get me skewered for all of eternity? We’re blue-collar workers here, man. Lower class. We’re not supposed to know any of the big stuff.” Stiles scrutinized the street, giving a row of hedges three houses down a mistrusting glance. “C’mon. Let’s talk somewhere more private.”

               With a snarl, Derek swatted the demon’s hand away from his face, only to have the other one shoot out and grab his wrist, tethering the pair of them as Stiles zapped back into Scott McCall’s bedroom. He shook free of the perversion’s grasp, glaring as he dusted black powder from his hair and clothes. Residue from Stiles’ essence.

               Stiles sank into the armchair in the corner, leaving him to sit in the too-small computer chair or stand. He was too rankled to attempt comfort anyway.

               Leaning forward in his seat, elbows digging into his knees, Stiles murmured, “I’m not saying this singular event _causes_ it. But it _will_ send this puppy down the path that leads to the big ‘A.’ It’s always a series—a _confluence_ —of events, you know that. I mean,” Stiles sighed as if heartbroken by even the prospect, gesturing to Scott, “look at this kid. He’s not a killer. He’s an adorable goofball.”

               Derek’s eyes fell on their— _his_ —charge. “If he doesn’t kill, if he shows mercy, he’ll ascend— _evolve_. He’ll become a True Alpha.”

               “That’s what you and I are here to make sure happens.” The abomination winked, like they were already co-conspirators. Derek hadn’t agreed to _anything_ , the presumptuous, conniving little—

               He glowered at the demon. “Werewolf or not, this boy is the embodiment of good. How do you even know you’ll be able to corrupt him?”

               “I don’t,” Stiles remarked flippantly, “but are you really willing to risk it?”

               Any attempt to prove Stiles wrong would only further convince him he was right. Derek remained silent rather than rise to the bait. The stakes were too high to gamble, and they both knew it. Even if Stiles had exaggerated Scott’s significance, Derek couldn’t defy his orders and refuse to rescue an untainted, deserving soul. Not without subjecting _himself_ to treason. His course of action would be the same either way, but with Stiles’ help (at least, his abstention from sabotage), Scott McCall’s salvation was almost a certainty. ( _Almost_ because Heaven and Hell still had to account for that pesky margin of error—free will.)

               The recognition of being backed into a corner was keenly felt. Refusing Stiles would only hinder his own efforts and objective. “You said ‘ _mutually_ beneficial endeavor,’” he reminded the creature. “What do you want in exchange?”

               Stiles had slumped into the armchair, head resting against its back, his legs splayed loose and provocative. “Can’t you guess?” he mumbled. His lips parted enough for Derek to see the glint of his pink tongue (thankfully, not forked as was the clichéd demonic trend) while one hand crept down his torso to cover the bulge of his sex. Just resting, not groping or fondling. The display itself wasn’t what flustered Derek, his insides squirming unpleasantly; it was the symbolism of the gesture.

               Derek’s lips pulled away from his gums in a sneer. “You’re _vile._ ” He knew even Scott’s heightened senses were oblivious to the pair of them right now, but his eyes flicked to the teenager, instinct urging him to shield the boy from depravity. Still sound asleep.

               The demon launched himself from the armchair in a _whoosh_ of air that fluttered Derek’s hair, perfect control over his lissome body, halting so that only the tips of their noses brushed. “Millennia, Derek.” Stiles’ voice trembled. Not with anger, as Derek initially concluded, but with agitation, frustration. As if he held some sort of power over the little monstrosity, had done him some merciless wrong. “ _Millennia._ That’s how long I’ve been enduring this case of blue balls. Are you purposefully acting this oblivious? Because I haven’t exactly been _subtle_ about my affections.”

               Derek raised one eyebrow in harsh amusement. The Hellspawn had no better grasp of subtlety than he did of virtue. “Your point?”

               Stiles’ eye sockets widened to almost perfect circles before narrowing to a squint, his right eyelid twitching. “My _point_? Stop dragging me around by the dick, dude.”

               Derek guffawed, his voice rising in volume, strained with scorning disbelief. “You think _I’ve_ been leading you on?”   

               Stiles scowled back at him. “You’ve never _once_ asked me to stop meeting you, did you know that? Sure, you grumble and glare the whole time, but you’re a moody bastard. That’s just your thing. You never actually tell me to _go_.” The demon gripped handfuls of his jacket, the soft leather creaking, but Derek didn’t push him away. Stiles’ body was so taut it nearly vibrated, wild desperation thrumming beneath his skin, barely contained. It was genuine, compelling, and Derek was intrigued by the honesty of it even if he couldn’t comprehend it. “You’ve never even _tried_ to hurt me.”

               Now Derek did shove him away. “I’ve never been ordered to.” He bristled at the implicit accusation.

               The demon barked a laugh and threw his hands in the air. “I think it’s pretty self-explanatory that you try to kill your opponents when you’re in the midst of a long-waging, prehistoric war. No one has to give you _orders_.”

               “You’ve never made an attempt either,” Derek retorted, jaw muscles pricking with sharp aches as he ground his teeth.  

               Stiles braced his hands on his hips and exhaled, shaking his head as he stared at the ceiling. There was something deeply comical about a demon looking Upward to summon a sense of calmness and composure.

               “You goddamn _dense_ , beautiful idiot,” the abomination declared. Derek flinched at the utter disregard of the Commandment. “You’re not my enemy. _I’m_ being honest; you’re just making excuses.”

               Derek’s hands clenched into exasperated fists. “What do you want from me?”

               “I thought I made it pretty obvious.” Stiles’ long fingers twitched against his outer thigh, making a hot, fleeting pass over his hip.    

               Derek snatched the abomination’s wrist in a bone-breaking grip, eyes blazing at the touch. The brilliance might’ve blinded a human, but Stiles’ own eyes were black holes. Their darkness swallowed his light. “You want to defile me—because I am an agent of Heaven. You mean to mock God and desecrate all that is sacred.”

               Stiles cocked his head to the side. “Ummm—no. You’re grumpy in the sexiest way possible, and I want to give you orgasms. That’s the extent of my villainy.” The perversion tested the strength of Derek’s hold. Instead of tugging his arm away, Stiles inexplicably tried to press closer, attempted to touch him again. Derek squeezed until the bones in the joint grated against each other.  

               He released the demon with a forceful push backwards. “You don’t need me for sex. Crawl back into your slime pit and find a fellow Hellspawn.”

               A noise rumbled from Stiles’ chest, rough, guttural, and aggrieved. He raked his hair into an even more chaotic mess. “You’re _impossible_. If it was just—It’s _you_ , dumbass. You’re an indispensable part of the equation. You’re the fucking _equal sign_ ,” he exclaimed.  

               Derek rolled his eyes at the outburst. Forgive him for not being more sensitive to the cries of evil incarnate. “I’m a joke to you, Stiles. A begrudging _plaything_. You don’t care about anything or any _one_. You can’t. You’re an unfeeling creature. It’s just the way you are.”

               The demon fumed—literally—a mist of black smoke exuding from his pores, dissipating into the air. “ _Fuck. You_ ,” he seethed, poking Derek’s sternum with a sharp jab after each word. “You stand there, shrouded in your self-righteousness and superiority, telling me who and what I am. I _have_ a soul, unlike you, you prick, dark and twisted as it might be. I have more capacity for feeling than you do.”

               This indignation was not only unexpected but also unjustified, embarrassingly so. “You’re a _demon_.” Stiles’ face was pinched with outrage, steadfast, as if that glaring fact was _beyond the point_. “I’m an _angel_ ,” Derek added, almost hysterically. Did he really need to further expound on the issue? “You couldn’t honestly think I’d agree.”

               “ _No_ ,” Stiles bit out crossly, “but you didn’t have to enjoy rejecting me so much either, you ass.” The demon disappeared a second later.

               If Derek didn’t know better—no. No, it. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. His entire worldview depended on it _not being so_. He had _not_ , by any stretch of the imagination, just been scolded by a soulless monster for being unkind. Nevertheless, he couldn’t ignore the hot blush of shame staining his cheeks or the nagging impression that he had hurt Stiles’ feelings.


	2. Chapter 2

               Wherever Scott went, Derek followed. Which meant spending eight hours the next day at Beacon Hills High. He had forgotten the cacophonous din associated with hundreds of teenagers packed into the same campus. The miasmic stench of sweat, perfume, cafeteria food, deodorant, dusty chalk. The chemical saturation of pheromones, thick and suffocating in the hallways. He didn’t know how Scott endured it with his enhanced senses.

               Tomorrow night, the boy would confront the alpha. Now was the time for a preemptive strategy, moving pawns out of play and eliminating triggers, all the while ensuring Scott McCall’s safety.

               His orders didn’t specify that McCall must rise to a True Alpha or even that the boy must be kept alive, only that Scott must be prevented from killing this so-called Alpha of Alphas, _Deucalion_. Perhaps the teenager’s death would erase the potential for Armageddon just as effectively as keeping him from committing this murder would.

               Derek gave a mental shrug and an outward sigh as he followed the boy through the congested hallways to his seventh-period English class. He was not an authority on the matter, lacking omniscience, and had neither the clearance nor the power to see ahead of the present. The only forthcoming events he knew were the ones included in his assignment file, the ones deemed need-to-know by his superiors.

               He might not be able to move into the future, but he could slip into the past. If Scott McCall did not live through the encounter with the Demon-Wolf, Derek wouldn’t let him stay dead long. He wasn’t sure what to make of such a sentimental conviction. Attachment, favoritism—dangerous practices when it came to Earthlings. That way always led to Falling in disgrace.

               If Derek was putting a plan into motion, then his spastic, demonic counterpart was, too. After their less than amicable parting yesterday, he assumed cooperation was no longer on the table. Derek needed to move fast. He was stronger, wiser, but the little demon was more creative, cleverer.

               Derek had seen flashes of Stiles all day, rounding hallway corners, blipping out of the backs of classrooms the moment Derek sensed him. Not a surprise. He would be keeping a close eye on his charge, implementing his own countermeasures.   

               Throughout the day, Stiles’ taunt followed him, unshakeable. The little beast had actually insinuated that Derek let him live all these centuries out of some misplaced sense of fondness. Yes, it was rare, perhaps even _unprecedented_ , for the same angel and demon to intersect so many times without a skirmish ensuing or a casualty on either side. _But_ _it didn’t mean_ —

               Derek huffed at the absurdity of the tail end of that thought.

               Maybe he _would_ kill the mouthy abomination once this assignment was finished. Especially if Derek failed. No doubt the seniors Above would blame him for the oncoming Apocalypse, would finally have an excuse to get rid of him. They’d compress his essence until it exploded in a radiant burst of energy, atomizing his vessel, eliminating any trace of him.

               Killing Stiles would be a fitting end to his existence.

               But hope was not lost yet. Maybe by some miracle (not likely), he would succeed. The first thing to do was detain the lower alphas of this elite pack. One had already died at Deucalion’s own hands. Counterproductive, in Derek’s opinion, but he wasn’t going to complain about a lightened workload. That left three. Tomorrow morning would be the best time to start removing them. Their disappearance would be recent enough not to arouse too much attention from Deucalion, early enough to prevent them from interfering with Scott. The twins were easy to find, spying on Scott’s pack at the high school. They would lead Derek to their female packmate, Kali.

               After school, Scott practiced a sport on the athletic field for several hours with his teammates. Derek was familiar with the more popular pastimes, but this one eluded him. Almost like hockey, but the majority of play happened overhead rather than on the ground. He observed from the bleachers, combating his boredom with vigilance, eyes trained on Scott.

               A slight breeze stirred to his right.

               “It’s called lacrosse,” Stiles mentioned. The ease with which the demon always managed to read his face was disquieting, if not _rude._ For someone so adept at intuiting others’ emotions, Stiles should have realized by now how irritating Derek found it and _taken a hint._ But, no. The demon could never just leave something unsaid and spare Derek the agony of their mostly one-sided discussions. As if to demonstrate that very point, Stiles interpreted his faint unease and supplemented, “Your eyebrows give you away, dude. They’re crazy expressive,” before adding a vague, half-hearted gesture towards Derek’s forehead.

               The silence stretched between them, and uncharacteristically, Derek chose to break it. “I didn’t think you’d want to speak to me again.” _Certainly not so soon_ , he griped internally.

               Stiles flapped his hand in a conciliatory motion, one that seemed to say _no big deal._ “You poked a sore spot. Not that you knew about it. Wasn’t your fault.” The demon squinted against the sun, eyes flitting between the athletes below.

               They were brown today, brightening from russet to cognac to amber as the light caught them. They made Stiles’ entire face warmer, and he supposed, as was their intention, more human. His horns were missing as well, sunken back into his skull, hidden beneath his disheveled hair.

               Derek understood—the need to feel a part of the world. To exist in plain sight, have people bump into him, smile at him, say hello. He would never confide it to anyone, but he felt a sense of inclusion, of belonging, amongst the humans that he never felt in Heaven, even if he was just an anonymous, random face in the crowd, people passing him by.

               After being invisible all day, Derek, too, had traded his otherworldly features for a pair of hazel eyes, tucking away his wings. If Scott McCall glanced their way, he would only see two men talking, enjoying the mild weather as they watched the practice.

               “Why are you here?” He withheld the usual clipped bite to his words. Simple curiosity replaced it. The creature had thrown away their faithfully-adhered-to script. Stiles harassed and annoyed; Derek growled and ignored.

               Never before had the perversion ( _Stiles,_ a soft voice in his head chastised) gotten angry with him, or at least he had never shown it. Until yesterday, Derek didn’t think he held enough influence over the little demon to make him angry. Anger implied caring. If one cared for nothing, then what was there to be angry about? And now, they were in the midst of a conversation, not an argument or a competitive dialogue. No gimmicks, agendas, or verbal posturing from either of them.

               “I said I’d help you, didn’t I? I thought we should compare notes. Decide on a strategy.”

               Stiles was still and weary and sincere in a way that Derek had never seen him. It seemed distastefully conceited to think this odd behavior was because of _him_ , because of their encounter yesterday. Instinct warned him it was an act—but to what end? To convince him to change his mind about the demon’s proposition? Stiles had just offered to help him without demanding his pound of flesh.

               Perhaps Stiles had been right about him. It fell within the realm of possibility. Maybe he was still making excuses, ignoring the signs right in front of him for so long. At the current moment, Derek was uniquely terrified, more so than at the prospects of Falling or being vaporized from all planes of existence. He didn’t know how to handle this _feeling,_ and in that regard, the demon had also been correct. Angels didn’t dabble in the emotional spectrum as much as humans or demons or any of the supernatural creatures in between. The inexperience and the novelty scared him.

               He glanced at the demon, bathed in the golden light of early evening, somehow poised and graceful in the gangly visage of a jailbait teenager, and couldn’t think of a single thing in Creation more beautiful than him. It was only a millisecond within the infinite span of time, a wisp of a thought, but the damage was done, the blasphemy committed.  

               Derek averted his eyes the moment Stiles peeked in his direction. He had been staring too long, silence seeping back in between them. “I still haven’t agreed to your request. I’m not going to.” His protest lacked sturdy resolve, weak to his own ears, but he wasn’t lying.

               “I’m not asking you to. Not anymore,” Stiles replied, his voice paced and even. Abnormal for him. “I meant what I said. I don’t want this world to end. I’m not gonna let the planet go by the wayside just because we’re—” Stiles aborted his sentence, chewing his bottom lip.

               Derek let it go. “Okay.”

               Stiles nodded. “You’re the expert on saving souls, Angelface, so I’ll follow your lead. What’ve you got so far?”

               Perhaps the most shocking behavior from Stiles in the last twenty-four hours was the demon _deferring_ to him. And not only that, but suggesting it, _volunteering_.

               Derek cleared his throat, once again feeling caught off-guard and uncomfortable. “The subordinate alphas are the real threat. They carry out Deucalion's dirty work: kidnapping, threats, torture, murder. If given the chance, they’ll take people important to Scott and use them as leverage, try to force his hand in killing and in joining their pack.”

               The little demon gnawed his bottom lip while he listened. Derek wondered whether Stiles paid special attention to the mouth when he designed his corporeal form. He must have. The Cupid’s bow of his top lip was so perfectly crafted, it approached sacrilege.

               Derek felt the blood pool beneath his cheeks, heat the tips of his ears, as his eyes darted back to Scott. Impure thoughts were only a mental hop, skip, and a jump away. The moment Stiles quit his gauche flirtations, Derek felt a true surge of attraction towards him. How horribly logical.

               “What about the emissary?” Stiles prodded, conjuring a carton of curly fries from thin air. The hellion offered one to him, another fry hanging out of his mouth like a pig tail. Derek declined.

               “Deaton?” Unofficially, the veterinarian advised Scott’s ragtag pack. If anything, he was an asset, an ally.

               The demon’s answering smirk confirmed that Derek was somehow at a disadvantage, out of the loop. “No, the alpha pack’s.”

               Derek felt his expression darken. _Nowhere_ in the file did it mention a second emissary. “The alphas killed every member of their old packs, including the emissaries,” he stated.

               “Two still live.” Stiles’ eyes glittered with exhilaration. The little demon treated his assignments like puzzles to solve, like a game to win.  

               Hell’s agents gathered intel via alternative (unethical) means, so it wasn’t uncommon for their data to differ from the information collected by Heaven’s operatives. Omissions and mix-ups were bound to happen but not at this scale. This was just grossly sloppy work. Whoever had done recon for this assignment deserved to have a few feathers plucked. Probably Jackson, the sniveling twat.

               “Which ones?” he asked.  

               “Deucalion’s and Kali’s.” The oversight would have cost Heaven Scott McCall’s soul. If Stiles wasn’t here right now, working with him, the assignment already would have been doomed. _Because of a clerical error._  

               Derek planned on dumping the werewolves in an abandoned distillery at the outskirts of Beacon Hills, confining them inside the building with a ring of mountain ash. Emissaries were druids, yes, but humans first and foremost. Either one could break a mountain ash barrier.

               “I thought emissaries were meant to be forces of good.”

               Stiles sipped from a can of soda that also appeared out of nowhere. “Deucalion’s emissary, Morrell—she’s good, for the most part, but,” Stiles took a deep swallow, slender throat rippling, and continued, “she’s an unnecessary complication, all about maintaining balance. That doesn’t automatically mean her agenda aligns with Scott’s wellbeing.”

               Derek grunted. “We can’t risk her finding and releasing the alphas. She’ll have to be restrained as well.”

               Stiles raised his soda as if to say _cheers._ “Agreed.”

               “The other one, too, I guess,” Derek grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was not a fan of last-minute changes. 

               “Nah, man. The other one’s a darach, the _opposite_ of a force of good. But she’s gonna give us a hand, unbeknownst to her, of course.” Derek rose one of his _expressive_ eyebrows, seeking elaboration. “She wants vengeance, for a past crime. She wants Kali dead.”

               The female alpha was a murderer, a power-hungry opportunist, but she loved and showed compassion, if only to a few, particular people. However, she wasn’t Derek’s to save.

               “With Kali and Ennis gone, the alpha pack is finished,” Stiles concluded.

               The alpha twins had wheedled their way into Scott’s social circle under Deucalion’s instruction but had stayed there for entirely different reasons. Up to this point, the brothers had remained with the alpha pack to survive and repay a debt to the blind alpha. Spending time with Scott’s friends had shown them a more wholesome pack lifestyle, one without constant bloodshed, violence, and intimidation. Their loyalty had already shifted. The twins wouldn’t return to the Demon-Wolf with his second- and third-in-command gone.

               Derek’s voice held the slow measuredness of dawning realization. “If Deucalion’s alone, Scott can beat him. Both of them still underestimate the boy’s strength.”

               Around a mouthful of potato, Stiles gave a thumbs-up and garbled, “We should probably divvy up the babysitting for the rest of the day.”

               Incapacitating the lower alphas was only half the chore. Scott’s loved ones, his mixed pack of humans and superhumans, needed to remain unharmed at all costs. With only Deucalion roaming free, their lives were probably not imperiled. But, better safe than sorry, as the mortals said.

               The assignment file forewarned of a particular contingency, a specific set of circumstances that would lead to the boy killing the Alpha of Alphas, damning himself. The higher-ups’ consensus, their most popular theory. That section of the report had been boldfaced and underlined, the font blood-red. Not something meant to be ignored.

               The potential scenarios were countless, varying in trivialities, but they all seemed to confirm that if Scott’s loved ones died—whether by Scott’s own forced hand or the alpha pack—the boy’s soul would be lost. Along with his True Alpha spark, his hope, his humanity, his sanity; any or all of the above. The grief and guilt and vengeful bloodlust would overwhelm him, and he would kill the Demon-Wolf, transforming into a dark version of the alpha he was meant to become. Afterwards, according to Stiles, events would only spiral further downward to culminate in the Apocalypse.

               The demon licked his salty, greasy fingers, tongue curling and dexterous, and offered, “I’ll take the alphas and the emissaries. You take Scott’s pack. Sound good?” When Derek lifted his eyes from the safety of his own lap, he found Stiles’ curved eyebrows raised high on his forehead, expectant.  

               Derek’s nod was stiff. He let his emotions get the better of him, sympathizing with the demon after their spat. He had unwittingly dismantled the dam in his mind that had held back millennia’s worth of dangerous impulses and self-destructive inclinations involving Stiles. Now, he was being swept away by the illicit totality of them, drowning.

               Was Stiles still seducing him? Gently enough so that when Derek submitted he would think it was his own idea?

               He couldn’t tell anymore. Whether Stiles was pushing or he was pulling. He wasn’t sure if it mattered.

               “ _How_ do you have a soul?” Derek wondered. The question had been perched on the tip of his tongue all day.   

               Stiles flailed, turning in his seat to face him. “ _Wow_. How long have you been hanging on to that one, partner? From professional to personal in zero point five seconds.” The demon whistled a single, long note as if he were impressed, chuckling to himself.

               “Since you mentioned it.”

               Stiles’ honey eyes shined in the brightness, shrewd as they searched his face. “All demons have souls, Der. Not exactly a headline.”

               Dumb was not a becoming look on the little demon. A strange flare of excitement burned inside of Derek, the knowledge that he had the upper hand for once. Stiles wasn’t lying outright. Equivocating, more like. “You told me you _‘have_ ’ a soul. Presently. It was either a Freudian slip…or you’re delusional.”  

               Stiles squawked. “You think I’m full of shit? Well, go on, then.” The Hellspawn puffed out his chest, thrusting it even farther into Derek’s personal space. The hard buds of Stiles’ nipples were visible through his light cotton t-shirt. A split-second flash of desire overtook him, and he imagined tearing the fabric down the middle, discovering the color of those taut, pointed peaks.   

               Instead, he rolled his eyes. “I believe you had a soul _once,_ when you were human. But even the most resilient soul can’t withstand the atrocities and torture of Hell for more than a few centuries before it’s burned away by sin and evil and corruption. You’re a lot older than that.”

               Stiles frowned. “You’re spouting your holier-than-thou bullshit again. You realize that?”

               Derek shrugged. It was nice to be the instigator for once.  

               “C’mon, call my bluff, big guy. If I have a soul, you’ll be able to feel it, right?” Stiles’ renewed smile oozed cockiness.

               Derek was determined to wipe it off the little brat’s face. “Fine. Move closer.”  

               “ _Finally,_ an invitation.” In record time, the demon stood and swung a leg over his lap, straddling his thighs and clinging to his shoulders. Derek’s first reaction wasn’t even to toss the creature to the other side of the stands, so clearly, something was wrong with him. “You don’t want a dozen teenagers to see you plunge your hand through my chest in broad daylight, do you?” Stiles murmured, hot and moist, against his neck. “They’ll just think we’re making out.”

               All he could muster in return was a snarled, gritty, “ _Stiles._ ” Pathetic.

               The demon leveled him with his gaze, scant inches between their faces, so close Derek could see the delicate fibers of his iris, each and every dark eyelash. “ _Dude_ ,” he hissed. “Put your hands on me. We’re trying to make this look natural, not like an assault.” Which it _was_. Derek didn’t remember giving Stiles permission to _sit on him._

               He wasn’t going to be maneuvered into some cheap, lewd display. Did Stiles think he was that _easy_ , that he would abandon modesty in exchange for a few tips about an assignment, a few crumbs of intelligence?  

               Stiles attempted to quell his mounting outrage, once again deciphering Derek’s face with disturbing accuracy. “Hey, I’m not angling for a quick grope.” When that failed to appease him, the demon blurted, “ _Christ_ , Derek, it’s not like I asked you to _finger me_. Just put your hands on my waist.”

               Derek flinched at the impiety but obeyed. Stiles exhaled, mumbling, “Was that so hard?”

               On the contrary. Far too easy. Stiles was _light_ , nearly weightless. He was such a slight, fragile thing. His vessel was. Derek could feel the bones beneath his clothes and his skin, see the blue veins sprawling up his hands and forearms. Could he count his ribs and the knobs of his spine, trace the bar of each collarbone, outline the crest of his hips? This physical frailty was difficult to reconcile with the raw, writhing, coiled power inside the little demon.

               “Ready?” Derek’s voice had gone husky. With Stiles in his arms, he was less intent on causing pain or even teaching the demon a lesson. Mostly, he was curious and puzzled. He didn’t understand Stiles’ motive for perpetuating such a ridiculous claim. Demons of his duration couldn’t maintain their human souls. They just _couldn’t._  

               Stiles licked his lips. “Yeah, yeah,” he breathed, fingers flexing against Derek’s muscle.

               Derek rested his palm in the middle of Stiles’ chest, locking their eyes, and thrust _deep_. Bypassing flesh and bone and blood—matter altogether—before pushing into Stiles’ essence, blazing-hot and dry around his hand like billowing smoke. A tear skated down each of the demon’s cheeks, his breaths harsh and gasping, eyes big and receptive. With his hand buried inside Stiles up to the wrist, Derek reached farther, to the demon’s innermost core, ignoring Stiles’ gouging fingertips in his shoulders, and grazed _it_.

               Not dark and twisted at all. No. _Beautiful_. The pulsing, vital energy of a _soul_ , swirling and mingling with wisps of pure celestial essence.

               He gasped the same moment Stiles groaned and jolted, the demon’s entire body shuddering against his. Derek withdrew, hand tingling, watching a dark spot spread against the inner leg of Stiles’ jeans.

               Derek’s eyes widened. “Did you just—?”

               The demon panted, curling inwards for physical support, tight, high little mewls escaping from Stiles as his orgasm finished. His stare turned hazy and heavy-lidded, a sheen of sweat dewing his upper lip, his breaths open-mouthed and humid.

               “Holy fuck, man. You just found my second g-spot.” Considering the current situation, Derek allowed the language. Stiles broke out into a breathless giggle, dropping his forehead against Derek’s shoulder. The creature was slack and languid and supple from his pleasure, impossible to ignore, but Derek could hardly dwell on those carnal thoughts with such a monumental revelation wedged between them.

               “Stiles, you’re _beyond_ rare. How—?”

               The demon (did that term even still _apply_?) pressed his first two fingers against Derek’s mouth, silencing him. “It’s a long story, sweetness.”

               No. Stiles couldn’t just drop such a colossal secret on him and then expect Derek to leave it. “You have a _soul, plus—_ ”

               “Sh, shh,” Stiles crooned, clearly compromised by the physical euphoria if he wasn’t reacting at all to the intensity of Derek’s murderous glare. Or, in greater likelihood, the little creature just didn’t fear him. Not one bit. He sent Derek a loopy grin and slurred, “Let’s get this job done first. I’ll tell you anything you wanna know over celebratory cocktails.”

* * *

              The next morning, he and Stiles set all their dominoes in a row, gave a little nudge, and watched them topple.

               The alpha twins did lead them back to Kali, so it was easy to transport all three at once to the distillery. Stiles teleported with the werewolves, giving Derek a second’s-worth headstart so that he could subdue them the moment they entered the mountain ash circle. Derek pressed a finger to each of their foreheads, knocking them out for half a day. Enough time so that once they woke, Scott’s encounter with Deucalion would already be over. Unconscious, they wouldn’t be able to howl for their leader.

               Morrell endured the same fate, but in the comfort of her apartment, sleeping well past her alarm with some angelic influence.

               The dark emissary, Jennifer, found Kali at the distillery around sunset, several hours before the werewolves were meant to be revived. The darach had been tracking Kali back to Beacon Hills for weeks. She stepped carefully over the mountain ash and slit the female alpha’s throat in her sleep. Kali never stirred. Jennifer left the twins uninjured and slipped out of town as surreptitiously as she entered it.

               Deucalion lured Scott to the preserve at nightfall with promises not to touch the boy’s friends or family as long as he came alone. (Under Derek’s supervision, no one was going to harm them anyway. Still, the meeting between the two werewolves was destined to happen, so he didn’t stop the teenager from sneaking out his bedroom window.)

               Deucalion gave the boy an ultimatum, one chance to join the alpha pack. He wasn’t thrilled by Scott’s answer.

               They fought. The blind alpha advanced on the teen, fully shifted, skin smooth and gray as stone, eyes bright red like laser points. Demon-Wolf, indeed. He forced Scott to the forest floor, claws scrabbling to tear out his throat, but the boy held him back. The beta resisted, tendon and muscle cording in his neck, fangs bared in a snarl, eyes burning gold with exertion.

               He and Stiles watched elbow to elbow at the periphery of the scuffle, unseen, as Scott threw the alpha across the clearing and into a tree trunk. Positions now reversed, the boy kneeled over Deucalion, claws poised high in a killing strike, batting aside the blind alpha’s feeble swipes. Scott shoved him deeper into the leaves and dirt, roaring in his face, forcing Deucalion back into his human form.

               It happened the moment Scott noticed the profuse bleeding from the alpha’s head wound and rose, deciding to grant mercy. The boy’s eyes flickered from yellow to red as he stood over the crumpled, beaten Alpha of Alphas, and eventually, they steadied into a deep, crimson glow.

               Deucalion left town. Scott returned home. Stiles called out a rather off-putting “that’s our boy!” and hollered for a high-five. (Which Derek rejected out of good taste.) They made a quick stop back to the distillery to free the twins, Stiles dragging the toe of his Converse through the mountain ash line and making a disgusted, gagging noise at Kali’s corpse and the blood puddle he had stepped in.

               Hands on his hips, the little monster grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “So. How ’bout those drinks now?”

               Derek accepted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To preface this chapter: 
> 
> In my capacity as creative dictator, I decided that angels and demons were frolicking on Earth thousands of years before Christianity (~ 1st century AD), competing for souls and squabbling. It turns out that religious mythology is REALLY complex and contradictory and ambiguous (who knew?), so, in short, please endure the timeline/mythological discrepancies if you can and remember I'm just an amateur in over my head writing M/M lovin'. 
> 
> Thanks, folks ♥ ♥ ♥

               Stiles zipped them over to a bar, taking the time to lace their fingers together rather than just grabbing and going. It was _almost_ like asking for Derek’s consent. Progress.

               “Jack and Coke,” Stiles called to the bartender before glancing in his direction. “My treat, dude. Whatever you want.”

               “Ginger ale,” Derek said decidedly. Stiles’ raised brow prompted him to amend, “I don’t imbibe.”

               “Mhmm. Okay, then.” Stiles pressed his lips together and gave the bartender an apologetic smile as if trying to compensate for Derek’s peculiar tastes. “And a Shirley Temple for my lovely friend, please.”

               When the bartender set down their drinks, Derek eyed his with distrust. It was…pinkish-red and bubbly, a perfect maraschino cherry perched atop the ice. Mocking him with its lurid glisten. “I said ginger ale.” He glared at Stiles.

               The hellion took a sip of his far less conspicuous, far more adult beverage and smirked. “Sorry, Der. I _really_ wanted to watch you pop your cherry.” He winked.

               Derek flushed, hiding behind his glass. He avoided the garnish as he drank, just to spite Stiles. The concoction happened to be delicious, so damn the little wretch twice.

               “In all seriousness, we did well today.” Stiles’ smile was soft, his sigh lazy and content.

               Derek agreed with a twitch of his own lips. “We did.”  

               “Cheers, my feathered friend.” Stiles raised his glass, and Derek met it with his own, _clink_ ing them together. “So, what’s next for you?”

               “Return to Heaven, report on the assignment, wait for the next one.” He shrugged.

               “Yeah, uh, same here,” Stiles muttered, thumbing the condensation on his glass. “Except for the direction of travel, of course.”

               “Are you going to be in trouble when you return to Hell?” In the midst of the assignment, the consequences awaiting Stiles had been abstract, hypothetical. Only when the celebrations started, when they had made it out the other side, did the troubling thought resurface, tainting Derek’s sense of satisfaction and accomplishment towards the mission.  

               Hell didn’t have the rights to Scott’s soul any more than Heaven did, but the werewolf had been a catalyst of the Apocalypse. The underlords weren’t going to handle Stiles’ failure well. And that was before, and _if_ , they ever discovered that their agent had purposefully fraternized and collaborated with an angel against Hell.  

               “Nah. They’ve got bigger problems Below than me.” The Hellspawn plucked the cherry from Derek’s glass, rolling it inside his mouth so that his cheeks bulged in alternation. Stiles caught his gaze before setting the cherry between his front teeth and bursting it, a micro-spray of juice glossing and reddening his lips as he chewed.  

               Stiles’ cavalier attitude did little to assuage his worry. He didn’t know why he was even surprised; the little hedonist treated most matters with the same maddening frivolity. Why should his own existence be any different? Not to mention that only yesterday, Derek had been considering stomping Stiles into a black smudge himself, and now, felt this nauseating hole being gnawed into his gut at the thought of something happening to the little beast.  

               He had no explanations.

               Derek stumbled through his next words but persisted. He owed it to Stiles. He owed Stiles the _world._ “If I spoke to my superiors in Heaven, told them what you did for us, for _humanity_ , I’m sure—”

               The faux-demon’s hand rested on his forearm, interrupting him. His eyes were the color of the whiskey in his glass, molten and liquid and tender beneath the warm glow of the bar lights. “That’s sweet, but no.” Stiles leaned into his side, and Derek couldn’t even pretend he minded the nearness anymore. “I’m more useful to you right where I am,” he murmured.  

               “You mean Heaven. Useful to Heaven,” Derek corrected.  

               Stiles’ nose grazed his cheek, an impish curve to his lips when he pulled back. “Sure, that, too.”  

               Derek finished his drink while examining the not-quite-a-boy, not-quite-a-demon sitting beside him. “I can stay for a few more hours before they wonder where I am.”

               “That’d be nice, man.” Stiles’ entire face brightened, tentatively hopeful. “We could have a few more drinks, maybe even talk about something _other_ _than_ work.” The sincerity within those words touched and startled Derek, leaving behind an ambivalent ache. His horde of angelic siblings tolerated him, and the Earthlings only perceived him in rare, temporal fragments. Stiles was perhaps the singular being who knew him better than all others, and in spite of that fact, he still genuinely, _unfathomably,_ enjoyed Derek’s company.

               A slow smile unfurled across Derek’s lips. “We could do that. Or, instead, this.” He cupped the creature’s face in both hands, thumbs following the ridges of Stiles’ cheekbones, and pulled him into a solid kiss. His first. (He was starting to understand humans much better.) Stiles’ lips were plush and yielding, sweet from the cherry and soda.

               Stiles nearly fell off his stool once Derek released him, gripping the edge of the bar with frantic strength to remain upright. “ _This_. I mean, _that._ I choose that, please.” The pseudo-demon downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp, tucked a crisp fifty under one of the glasses—where he obtained the currency, Derek didn’t want to know—and tugged him to the adjoining alley so they could teleport.

* * *

               Stiles’ chosen venue was not what he expected. “Where are we?”

               The hellion glanced around the examination room. “Oh, the local vet clinic.”

               “ _Why_?” Derek questioned, brows rising to extreme judgmental heights on his forehead when Stiles didn’t feel the need to clarify any further.

               “Deaton’s an emissary, so this place is protected from most supernatural creatures. The unique architecture has a way of…” Stiles squinted, contemplating the proper words, “ _concealing_ what’s inside. I figured we wouldn’t be found here. Or disturbed.” By the end of that sentence, his cheeks were a delectable pink.

               The sight of Stiles bashful made him overwarm and buoyant inside, his gaze turning predatory. “Good. We can stop hiding.” With a roll of his shoulders, Derek resumed his angelic form, eyes glowing silvery-white like twin moons, wings unfolding partway with relief.

               Stiles followed suit, smoke seeping from the corners of his eyes then curling, swarming, thick and dark through the socket until nothing was left but smoldering cavities. The horns sprouted from Stiles’ messy locks like bizarre thorns, aligned with his temples.

               The responding swoop in his belly dispelled any lingering thoughts that his attraction to Stiles might only be skin-deep. Yesterday’s pretense of humanity had been tantalizing, Stiles rosy and golden in the sunlight, eyes inviting and body delicate. It was a nice fantasy—a pleasant image to file away and call upon from time to time—but it was hollow and unrealistic, too, the way most fantasies were. A lie. He had been drawn to Stiles long before he ever saw that side of him, enthralled by his sharp tongue and caustic humor even when Stiles’ real shape had still made him recoil and inspired hatred.

               Admitting that he wanted _Stiles_ , in whatever aspect that entailed, was the hardest part. Once he did that, it was effortless to confess how stunning Stiles was in his true form, sinisterly beautiful, crackling with fierce power, able to lure an angel into sin.

               “Derek, what is it? You’re just, like, _staring._ ” Stiles wriggled in place, sporting an anxious, petulant frown, his arms crossed over his chest.

               “Got lost in your eyes,” he reassured with a gentle smile.             

               Stiles’ fingers twined together with restlessness, tangling and then unraveling in repetition. “Nah. These old things?” he joked weakly, fluttering his eyelashes with exaggeration. Overcompensating for the nervous tumble and stutter of his words.

               “They’re beautiful.”

               The little hellion rubbed the back of his neck, simpering. “Shit, man. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d want me like _this_ ,” he made an all-encompassing gesture to his head and its residing demonic features, “when we, um.” Stiles abandoned the sentence with a tight-lipped smile, rocking between the balls and heels of his feet.    

               Derek didn’t care for that self-deprecating undertone. Angelic protocol dictated that he despise Stiles on principle, the compulsion to detest and destroy demons ingrained into every one of his molecules during his creation. And all these years, it had been easier that way, to operate on absolutes—good and evil, black and white, right and wrong—rather than entertain the rebellious notion that not all monsters did monstrous things.

               It only took a glimpse of Stiles self-conscious and doubtful, nearing apologetic, to undo millennia of training and upbringing. Derek felt a poignant stab in his chest, an empathetic hurt. He didn’t know what Stiles had done to end up in Hell and earn those black, pitted eyes. Perhaps the little creature wasn’t all good, but he had proven that he wasn’t all bad either. Furthermore, Stiles was too extraordinary, too _special_ , to feel ashamed for being what he was.  

               “You think I would’ve let you live all these centuries if I didn’t want every part of you?” Derek questioned, echoing Stiles’ (well-founded) accusation from the other night. 

               Stiles’ jaw dropped, flabbergasted, before he laughed, the voids within his orbital cavities seeming to _glitter_ with mirth. “I _knew_ it,” the creature crowed, pushing Derek’s chest with playful shoves. “How long have you liked me, huh? Since Wessex? Constantinople? Lacedaemon? Hattusa? _Thinis_?” With each guess, Stiles grew more animated and awestruck, eyes rounding to the size of coins, pouty mouth ajar.

               “More like early Neolithic Mesopotamia,” Derek informed.

               “When we met?” the little creature asked with such uncharacteristic humbleness that Derek felt a sickly-sweet clench inside him, a visceral _yearning_ to cosset and cuddle the little creature. “You were sweet on me through Stone, Bronze, and Iron. That’s before the _wheel_. Derek, that was before _geometry._ You liked me before people even cared about _triangles._ ”

               Derek shrugged, a faint smile on his lips, knowing just how much his non-response would infuriate Stiles.

               “You’re an ass,” the pseudo-demon groused, hands coming to rest on Derek’s pectorals, spine curving with accommodation as Derek’s palms smoothed over his lumbar and occiput and pulled Stiles’ middle in tight against him.

               The positioning exploited the minor height difference between them, Stiles’ head tilted back, throat bared, eyes upward gazing and fringed with lengthy, boyish lashes. _So sweet,_ Derek cooed to himself with a pang of affection. Stiles felt deceivingly dainty in his arms, almost passing for a real boy. The youth of his vessel was another ensnarement, inviting underestimation, triggering the instinct to protect and nurture rather than flee or confront.

               Derek was starting to fully realize how much he enjoyed the contradiction between Stiles’ physical body and supernatural essence. He could fit the tiny hellion in the shelter of his arms and never worry about breaking him.

               His sex _throbbed_ , the arousal simmering inside of him demanding attention. _That_ had never happened to him before, and theoretically understanding the physioanatomical process hadn’t prepared him for the actual _sensation._ A jump in his belly, heat in his crotch, a tension in his pelvic floor.  

               Stiles made a faint, throaty noise of delighted surprise and smiled. “I can feel your cock against me,” the creature murmured into his neck, placing a single kiss at the hinge of his jaw. Derek’s body went rigid to suppress a shiver, Stiles’ smile transforming into a wide, toothy grin. “I noticed something,” the hellion continued in a whisper. “You wanna know what that is?”

               He didn’t react until Stiles sucked his earlobe, releasing it with a stinging nip. Derek nodded, his exhales rushing in harsh bursts from his nose.

               “There was an uptick in your heartbeat the moment I said ‘ _cock_.’” He overemphasized the consonants, making them sharp and crisp so that the word possessed an even more explicit edge than usual.

               “ _Stiles_.” The admonishment sounded more like a plea. How had they had gotten here? Hadn’t Stiles been the timid one only moments ago, needing reassurance? Then he remembered the little creature’s expertise and experience in these matters, and it didn’t seem so bizarre that the tables had turned without his notice.

               “It’s vulgar, right? It makes you wince,” Stiles rasped, body moving in a single undulation that pressed their hips together, made both of their eyes slip shut. “It makes you hot though, too, doesn’t it?” Stiles’ mouth was so close that his upper lip snagged Derek’s bottom one on every other word.   

               Derek kissed him to stop the filthy monologue. For a few other, less honorable reasons as well. This kiss was different from the one at the bar, overwhelming him the moment Stiles licked along the seam of his lips and slipped the tip of his tongue into Derek’s mouth. He jerked back, alarmed by the unusual feeling, but Stiles surged forward, cradling his face in those elegant, skillful hands, scratching through his beard in soothing strokes. The Hellspawn licked again, tracing the swell of his bottom lip, patiently nibbling and pecking, waiting for Derek to part his mouth and let him inside.  

               When he did, Stiles rewarded him with a _purr._ The little hedonist flicked their tongues together, darting forward and shying back, goading Derek to follow Stiles’ tongue across the threshold of his swollen, candy-pink lips. Whether it was in response to Derek’s compliance or his technique, Stiles gave a soft, pleased yelp when Derek licked into him. It was dizzying to kiss like this, so connected and intimate, the slick sounds of their embrace undeniably erotic against the ambient hush of the clinic.

               “Can you feel my hard dick against you?” Stiles panted, nuzzling against his scruffy cheek.

               He could. With every shift, Stiles’ tumescence brushed his, fueling the gratifying pressure between his legs, the prickle at the base of his spine, the aggressive pulse of his blood.

               He croaked, “Yes,” and lifted his partner by the back of the thighs, relishing Stiles’ stunned squeal, and carried him to the adjoining office with a padded, leather couch. Even after being deposited onto the cushions, the faux-demon clung to him, lean thighs tightening around his hips, the heels of Stiles’ tennis shoes digging into the dimples of his lower back but remaining mindful of his wingtips.           

               Stiles’ chuckle was low, smooth. “You really are a goodie two-shoes, aren’t you? Some _very_ brief and mild dirty talk, and you’re ready to go.”  

               Derek frowned. “You think I’m a prude.”

               “Babe, you don’t swear, fornicate, profane, or imbibe. You are _definitely_ a prude.” Stiles poked him in the ribs before Derek could swat him away.

               He grunted, feeling his brows, heavy with aggrievement, knit together. “I’m about to have sex with a demon. That should tip the scale in the other direction a little,” he deadpanned.  

               “Wasn’t an insult.” The creature smiled, warmth and fondness flooding his features, fingers running through Derek’s hair. “If I didn’t want every part of you, I would’ve abandoned this indefinite and often _grueling_ instance of foreplay millennia ago.”  

               A bubble grew in his chest, expanding, threatening to erupt and release—release what, he didn’t know. A laugh, an exhale of relief, a sappy confession. Derek might’ve described the feeling as _giddiness_ if not for how unbecoming it would seem for a being of his aloof and unsociable reputation. Moreover, the little firebrand would taunt him for eternity if he ever discovered the extent of Derek’s… _eagerness_ for him.

               He sublimated those foolish and whimsical impulses into action, forcing his wings back under his flesh long enough to remove his jacket and t-shirt. His feathers reemerged, producing shudders as they skimmed and tickled his back. He was unused to his vessel’s nudity. Unsurprisingly, no other assignments—since the assembly of his vessel—had called for it.

               “You would’ve made a decent architect as a human,” Stiles noted, thumbing across one of his nipples. Derek had included them in his vessel’s blueprints for the sake of accuracy and realism despite being unable to recognize their function on the male body (along with the adult navel). As Stiles’ long fingers teased the bud into a stiff peak, the sensation bright and _tingly_ , adding to the ache and clench between his legs, he was immensely grateful that he had.

               The hellion licked his lips, eyes roaming across Derek’s torso with appreciation as he outlined jutting bone and defined muscle. “We’ve got a score to settle, you and I.”

               “For what?” Derek asked almost absentmindedly, Stiles’ hands mesmeric and insatiable in their need to map his vessel by touch.

               “The bleachers.” The top row of Stiles’ straight, ivory teeth settled into his bottom lip, suggestive, a wicked sparkle in his ethereal eyes.

               The familiar fever-heat of embarrassment washed over Derek’s face and nape. “That wasn’t intentional.”

               “Trust me, big guy, you’re gonna want a warm-up round before the main event.” Stiles’ legs loosened and slid down the back of his thighs, clever fingers snaking into his front beltloops for leverage as he rolled his hips upwards into Derek’s, pulling a moan from both of them. Emphasizing his point. Stiles’ fingernails skating above his waistband elicited a tremble that left Derek too incapacitated to process the metallic flick and grate of his jeans being unbuttoned and unzippered.  

               The Hellspawn groaned. “Commando? _Really_?”

               Derek sighed, the insistent pressure in his groin somewhat alleviated with his jeans open. Warm hands snuck into his pants, skirting the more scandalous areas and instead running down his haunches. Stiles arched, as if petting and caressing him gave the creature unspeakable pleasure, and the sight made Derek slip out of his fly with a lusty jerk.

               “Up. C’mon,” Stiles urged, pushing him away while still trying to mouth at his collarbone. “Get naked.”

               It was simple for Derek. He kicked off his boots and stepped out of his jeans, completely bare, wings twitching and ruffling as he halted them from curving around him and shielding his nakedness. Meanwhile, Stiles battled to divest himself of the several needless layers of clothing he always draped over his vessel. Flannel overshirt, t-shirt, jeans, briefs, socks, tennis shoes. It gave Derek the opportunity to observe his unlikely counterpart, to admire the Hellspawn’s craftsmanship.

               Stiles’ vessel was so much more imaginative than his own. The attention to detail _alone_. The tilted tip of his nose that gave his overall face a pixyish appearance. Beauty marks that speckled his pale skin, chest and back and arms and legs. Particularly noticeable were the ones dotting each of his shoulder blades, the exact place a pair of wings would sprout. The coarse trail of hair below Stiles’ navel that drew the eyes downward and that disappeared into the underwear he shed only a moment later. Combined with his smooth-carved bone structure and lean, overlying muscle, Stiles’ body was exquisite. A live-action sculpture of pure artistry.

               After peeling off his last sock (whilst hopping on one foot for several entertaining seconds), Stiles straightened up, finally registering Derek’s eyes on him.

               “Wow, someone embellished a little.” Stiles smirked, crossing his arms, comfortable in his nudity, the toes of one bare foot skimming over the floor in beguiling little arcs.

               “Excuse me?” Derek tried to blink his daze away.

               Stiles walked a slow circle around him, giving a wolf whistle as he made a complete cycle. “Are you trying to tell me that you just _happened_ to model your vessel after a perfect male specimen? You know vanity is a _sin_ , right?”

               Derek scowled, looking down at himself. “This is anatomically correct,” he huffed, gesticulating to his masculine shape.

               “You have a pretty big cock. Uncut, too. Are these also just coincidences?” Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress his smile. Well, not trying very hard.

               Derek’s eyes flicked between their erections, his cheeks immediately flaming hot. Stiles was a soft, glowing pink, circumcised, and dare he say, _pretty_. Smaller, too, but then so was his vessel. Every piece of Stiles fit together perfectly, naturally, without warranting a single change. Derek never claimed to be as talented a designer. And after inhabiting his vessel for so long, he felt rather indifferent towards its appearance. It was just _him._ By no means was it flawless, but it was functional and appropriate for his work. It didn’t need any alterations.

               “I’m proportional,” he finally objected.                 

               Stiles chuckled, approaching. “No doubting that. And _this_?” The hellion’s hands glided along his waist, moving behind to his lower back, _down_ , cupping him. “This luscious ass you’ve constructed.”

               Derek’s mouth went unprecedentedly dry. He rasped, “It’s not—”

               Stiles raised his eyebrows in challenge. “If you sat on my face, I’d die a happy being, smothered to death by your superb bubble butt.”

               He glowered, preferring to mask his perplexity with irritation. The last innuendo or sexual euphemism or _whatever_ had gone right over his head. For someone so much younger, Stiles had an uncanny knack for making him feel like a naïve child. “Why would I sit—?”

               “Baby steps, sweetness. Rimming is the major leagues, and we just started tee-ball.” When Derek’s sour expression didn’t sweeten, the creature cradled his face, studying him. “You think I’m making fun of you.”          

               Derek grumbled, “Along with objectifying me, _yes._ ”

               Stiles sighed, the corners of his lips lifting into a sympathetic smile. “I know it’s gonna take time for you to accept that there’s no hidden agenda with me. No punchline, no trick, no ulterior motive. This— _us_ —was never about conquering you or degrading you in any way. I give you a hard time, but that’s, like, our go-to method of bonding. I just—” The creature’s throat clicked and rippled with a swallow, thumb brushing beneath Derek’s lower lip. “I want to make you feel cherished and _good._ Baby, if you let me, I’d _worship_ you.”

               “Stiles,” he choked. No doubt the phrasing had been intentional, making Derek run hot and cold all at once, the same thrill shooting through him as when Stiles spewed his lecherous words. He shouldn’t delight in the irreverence, the near-idolatry of the comment, but his essence shone brighter all the same.  

               The faux-demon _prowled_ forward, bumping their chests together, nudging him backwards with the press of fingertips to his sternum. Once his calves hit the front of the couch, Derek lost his balance and collapsed onto the cushions with a grunt. The hellion followed him down, dropping to his knees with far too much grace and glee. Stiles’ hands crept behind his legs, tugging Derek forward with a rough jerk until he sat at the edge of the cushion, bewildered, heart thundering behind his ribs.   

               “Spread ’em wider, Der,” Stiles insisted, pushing his thighs open farther, tone so sweet and gentle that Derek found himself obeying without any resistance. The little creature’s gaze lifted no higher than his crotch, unflinching and wanton, as he murmured, “Well, aren’t you just God’s little masterpiece?”  

               Derek’s hips lurched of their own accord, and he squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving. “Please, don’t.”               

               “I know, I know,” the Hellspawn soothed, pecking apologetic kisses across his face. “The blaspheming is probably a turn-off. I wouldn’t want you to bring up my dad when my dick’s hard either. Sorry.” He offered a lopsided, sheepish (breathtaking) smile. Delivering such an apology while he knelt at Derek’s feet still seemed fairly sacrilegious. But. Progress.  

               The hellion laid a hand atop each of his thighs, setting his chin on the right one while he assessed Derek. “Ever had someone else’s mouth on you?”

               Derek shook his head and added quietly, “I’m untouched.” _Except by you,_ the silence seemed to say.

               Stiles nodded, kissing his knee in reassurance. “I figured, but I didn’t want to assume. Do you want my mouth on you?”

               He beheld the creature’s pretty lips, already curled in a knowing smile. _Unequivocally, categorically, yes._ An anticipatory quiver danced through his belly. “If you want it, too.”

               In reply, Stiles dipped his head and licked him, steadied the bob of Derek’s erection by wrapping a hand around him. Around his _cock._ Heat, mingled with shame and mortification and lust, coursed through him, spreading from his core to his extremities. Indecent thoughts were the least consequential of the sins he was committing tonight. This small submission was sweet and painless.

               The first touch was electric, bolting and sparking through him, skittering up his spine until his back bowed with pleasure, muscles taut and trembling. The Hellspawn tongued underneath his foreskin, stretching it down his length so he could lap at the wet slit and suckle his cockhead.  

               Stiles pulled off, perched on his knees and toes, lips glossy with more than saliva. “You can touch me, y’know. This isn’t a spectator sport.” Half his mouth lifted in a devilish smile.  

               Derek’s thighs quaked with restraint, the head of his dick cold and wet without Stiles’ encompassing warmth. His breath hadn’t quite returned to him before he spoke. “I don’t know what to do.”

               “Touch me the way you’ve always wanted to.” With that, Stiles took his cock back into his mouth, deeper than before, the contours of his cheekbones sharpening as he sucked.

               Trying to please an experienced lover seemed an impossible task in itself, but coupled with the mind-numbing bliss of Stiles’ obscene, pink lips sliding up and down his dick, he could barely muster a coherent thought. He began simply, a brush of fingers through Stiles’ thick, silky hair.  

               At that contact, Stiles’ eyes snapped upwards to him, eyelashes fluttering, encouraging him with a moan. The vibrations from it intensified the sensation, pleasure tugging at Derek’s belly and groin, muscles clamping and flexing, every pulse point _thump_ ing. A groan was torn from his chest, higher-pitched than he’d care to admit, body shaking with the pent-up desire to thrust and shove and take.

               Derek traced the creature’s jaw with his fingertips, circled the bulge of his own cockhead against Stiles’ cheek with his thumb. “Can—?” Stiles squeezed his knee, prompting him to continue. “Can you take me deeper?”

               The hellion backed off with a soft _pop_ , a glistening trail of saliva and precome connecting his bottom lip to Derek’s messy cockhead. Stiles licked his lips, wetness still smeared at the corners of his mouth and his chin. “You wanna fuck my mouth, Der?” He breathed, voice rough. “Want me to keep your whole cock nice and warm?”

               Derek watched Stiles’ lips, swollen and slick and inviting, form those words. “Please,” he gasped.   

               Nursing only the tip of Derek’s cock, the faux-demon uttered a noise of languid satisfaction. Stiles rubbed the cockhead along the slippery seam of his closed lips before letting it slip back inside his mouth. A challenge and a tease, inciting Derek to make the next move. The little creature didn’t just want willing compliance; he wanted eager participation.

               Much to Stiles’ chagrin, Derek still went slowly, steadying his partner’s head, splaying his fingers across Stiles’ neck and behind his ears, covering his favorite constellation of moles on the left side of Stiles’ face. The hellion rolled his eyes with exasperated fondness at the tender touches. Easing forward, Derek bit back a whimper as Stiles’ throat constricted around his cockhead, tipping forth on a moan so that his hands slipped off Stiles’ shoulders and fell to the sleek, powerful muscles of his back.

               His hips drove incrementally deeper, quicker, goaded into a truly frenzied pace when Stiles massaged his balls and whined around his cock, the slurping sounds growing louder, sloppier.

               The creature was so beautiful in pleasure, giving and receiving, that Derek’s chest tightened with an unnamed emotion, deeper than affection, more wholesome than possessiveness. He pushed the hair away from Stiles’ forehead and fell into his bottomless eyes, succumbing with a shout to the almost-painful peak of sensation that made his body clutch and pulsate in all its intimate places. His essence surged and pounded within his vessel, making him feel precisely like a pressurized container that had just burst.

               Winded and wrung-out from his orgasm, he grabbed Stiles under the arms and hauled him off his knees, off of Derek’s cock, and onto his lap. The creature squealed in surprise (quite adorably) and muttered about “manhandling” under his breath, but he settled comfortably enough over Derek’s thighs.

               “That was the warm-up?” Derek ascertained, body lax and floaty in the shimmering euphoria of afterglow.

               Stiles laughed, looking completely indecent with his stiff cock standing between his thighs and Derek’s come glazing his mouth like icing. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” His tongue made a languorous circle around his lips to clean away the rest of Derek’s release. “Y’know, for all those legends about holy water burning and blistering unholy creatures, you’d think guzzling your angel cream would at least sting _a little_.”

               Derek’s eyebrow lifted. “You weren’t sure beforehand?”

               “How many angels do you think I’ve sucked off?” Stiles asked with a chuckle. “Either way, worth it. You’ve got a great cock.”

               “Do you want me to do the same for you?” In an act of unsurpassed boldness on his part, Derek scratched through the dark thatch of Stiles’ pubic hair, thumb rubbing along the underside of his engorged cock, shiny and drooling at the tip.

               Stiles ground down into his lap once, emitting a noise between a gurgle and a hum, before shaking his head. “I’m gonna come on your cock,” he stated with (frightening) determination and a manic gleam in his eyes.  

               “I could just shove my fist through your chest again.” Derek snorted, petting along the creature’s sides, grazing his ribcage.

               “You wanna follow your first BJ with fisting?” Stiles questioned with mock incredulity in his voice. More than one term in that sentence escaped Derek’s comprehension. “I told you, Angelface, baby steps.” He leaned forward for a kiss, soft and wet, plenty of tongue but no teeth. He could taste himself in Stiles’ mouth.    

               “We never did talk about that,” he reminded in a mumble, ignoring Stiles’ tactics of deflection.

               The hellion sighed, bumping their foreheads together. “You know what I am.”

               Derek nodded, kissing the space between Stiles’ eyebrows.

               “Say it.”

               He pressed his lips to the shell of Stiles’ ear before he whispered, “Nephilim.” Even in such a haven, it wasn’t wise to broadcast that word.

               Stiles leaned back far enough to catch his eyes. “You were right about me, Der. I _am_ an abomination. Just not quite the one you thought I was.” The Hellspawn offered a wary half-smile, gauging his reaction.

               With the utmost earnestness, Derek said, “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He wrapped a supportive arm around Stiles’ back, letting his opposite hand creep along the creature’s slim outer thigh, fingers sinking into the firm muscle and soft flesh of his ass.

               A curt, throaty hum from Stiles convinced him to explore further, to drag a fingertip down his crack and over the faint depression of his asshole. It twitched under the pad of his finger, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Derek. “How should—? Is that—?” he stammered, nonplussed. Vocalizing _Is that correct? Am I doing it right?_ would be even more humiliating.

               The halfling snickered and beamed. “Babe, I’ve only got one hole down there. You’re doing just fine. Although, I’d recommend some of this.” Stiles opened his hand, palm up, and a moment later, a tube of lubricant dropped out of the air and landed in it with a crisp smack. The creature flipped the tube around and offered the capped end to him.  

               Derek had accepted that he was doomed to wear a perpetual blush around the brat, especially during any sexual encounters. He was starting to treat the omnipresent heat in his cheeks and ears and neck with resignation. He coated the tip of one finger, cringing at the lewd squelch of the lubricant, and had just barely pressed against Stiles’ hole when the hybrid stopped him.

               “Don’t give it to me right away,” Stiles instructed. “You’ll spoil me. Tease me a little bit, get me riled up first.” He released Derek’s wrist and administered a playful bite to his shoulder.

               “That seems counterproductive for you,” Derek noted, circling Stiles’ rim with a slippery finger, following his perineum until he reached far enough between his legs to knead his balls. He remembered how good it felt when Stiles had done it for him.

               Stiles offered a tiny moan, pushing his ass back, giving Derek easier access. “What can I say? I’ve lived most of my life in Hell. I’m a little masochistic.” The creature leered.

               Derek had been harboring a multitude of questions about Stiles’ past since the moment he touched the Nephilim’s soul. The sensitivity of the topic alone had given him reason to wait until the right time to address the issue. Now, with Stiles naked and flush against him, skin hot as Hellfire, eyes sultry and hooded, was absolutely _not_ the right time.               

               The little half-angel mewled when Derek rolled his entire sac in one palm while sucking his nipple. “Fast learner for a virgin, aren’t you?” Stiles quipped, voice airy.

               “I’ve been told I have a ninety-percent success rate,” Derek retorted, kissing a bruise into Stiles’ neck as he slicked up the halfling’s lovely, cut cock.

               Stiles responded with a mixture of a laugh and a moan, bony hips swiveling, increasing the friction. The hellion grunted unhappily when Derek dropped his dick.

               To Derek’s horror, he found the gruff, little noises of complaint _endearing_ and consoled Stiles by pressing a finger inside of him. Stiles’ body gave easily, but his hole clamped snug around Derek’s finger, smooth and soft and tender inside. The mere semblance of vulnerability was enough to awaken a sense of protectiveness within him, his wings curving around them and enclosing Stiles. 

               “I like the feel of your feathers against my bare skin,” Stiles mumbled, eyes closed, his mouth shaped into a bittersweet pucker as Derek stretched him with gentle strokes and curious twists of his finger.

               Derek fluttered his wings along the half-human’s spine, savoring Stiles’ huff and shiver before adding another finger.

               “Hook and scissor them. It’ll open me up bett— _oh my_ _God_ ,” Stiles moaned, his spine going rigid, thighs lifting slightly from Derek’s lap.

               “ _Stiles,_ ” Derek growled in warning. Out of habit more than anything else, considering the way Stiles was _writhing_ on his fingers, so gorgeous he couldn’t tear his eyes from the halfling. 

               “It’s a _reflex,_ dude. You’re, like, drilling right into my prostate,” Stiles whined, spreading his thighs wider, canting his ass higher into the air, trying to pull Derek’s fingers in deeper.  

               Derek was too aghast and delighted to even attempt cockiness. “Am I?” He didn’t dare move his hand and lose his place, rubbing in small, continuous circles even as his fingers started to cramp.  

               “Yes, yes, you’re a sex-god prodigy, you cherubic motherfucker,” Stiles grumbled, rising onto his knees so that Derek’s fingers slipped out of him.  

               “Cherubs are an entirely separate—” Derek objected, before realizing that the name had been intentionally insulting and that the angelic hierarchy was probably of little interest to Stiles, especially at this moment. The blasphemous nature of the Nephilim’s remarks hadn’t improved very much either. “Never mind,” he finished.

               “How do you want me, big guy?” The creature twined their fingers together, bringing Derek’s hands to the narrow slant of his hips so he could move Stiles as he liked.

               He lifted the hybrid enough to slide him off of his lap and sprawl him onto the cushions to his right, cater-cornered to the armrest and the back of the couch. Derek rose to a kneel, pivoting on one knee while straightening the other leg until his foot touched the floor.

               “Ugh, the manhandling,” Stiles griped, letting his head and one arm hang over the armrest.

               Derek narrowed his eyes. “You like it.”

               The half-angel lifted his head a fraction and grinned. “You bet your sweet ass I do. But, this,” Stiles gestured to his current position, “missionary—that’s so predictable, man.”  

               Derek lifted one shoulder noncommittally. “You asked me how I wanted you,” he stated, pushing underneath Stiles’ legs until his palms pressed against the couch, arms locking, the hybrid’s legs dangling over his elbows. Stiles grunted when his knees slid back nearly to his ears, spreading and exposing him. (Derek was the one who still blushed, of course.) “ _This_ is how I want you.”            

               Stiles guffawed, lips parting with realization. “You’re not a stereotype. You just wanna watch your cock disappear inside me. You want an up-close, front-and-center view of my teeny-tiny, pink asshole being forced open, stretched around your—”

               He felt quite vindicated as he slapped a hand over Stiles’ mouth. See how the little brat liked it. “ _Stop_.”

               The shape of Stiles’ mouth shifted beneath his palm. “You kinky bastard,” the half-human announced with a smirk.

               Derek sighed. He considered threatening to gag the halfling but stopped himself at the last moment. Knowing Stiles, he would probably find the prospect oddly pleasurable. Instead, he kissed the Nephilim, the only method proven so far to shut him up.

               Stiles hummed against his mouth, the noise greedy, hungry. The little hybrid’s range of motion was limited, but somehow, he managed to reach underneath his own hanging legs for the discarded bottle of lube. “Baby, come here. Press right up against me.”

               It was hard to refuse when Stiles was tugging him forward by the ass, fingers set deep in the muscle, inarguable. He scooted forward until the front of his thighs brushed the back of Stiles’, Derek’s cock mostly hard again and the halfling’s lying upright against his belly, a vibrant, blushing pink, leaking limpid droplets against his happy trail.

               Stiles squirted some slick into his hand, tossing the bottle aside, and stretched his arm between them to smear the lube down Derek’s cock.

               “I thereby anoint you,” the half-angel declared, giving his dick one last squeeze.

               “You are _incorrigible_ ,” Derek snarled, his hips bucking forward as Stiles’ hand retreated.

               The hybrid’s smoky, cavernous eyes glimmered. “That was the last one, I swear.” The little beast actually raised his _right hand up to God_ while simultaneously promising to refrain from further impiety.

               He dropped one of Stiles’ legs, which slumped limply, in favor of gripping his own cock, plunging into Stiles with a steady, inexorable thrust.

               “Oh, fuck,” Stiles whimpered, hissing, holding the backs of his own knees, pulling his legs in tighter and wider for Derek. His head flopped over the armrest, erratic breaths making his chest heave and bringing the veins in his arching neck into relief.

               Tight. Soft. Warm. Wet. Those four words, repeating in Derek’s head like a prayer. Unable to comprehend anything beyond those select sensations as he bottomed out, completely engulfed by Stiles.

               “Feels good, doesn’t it?” the Nephilim panted.

               Derek nodded and swallowed before trusting his voice enough to speak for him. “How do you want me to…?”

               “Do whatever comes naturally. I’ll take it as hard or as fast as you want.” Stiles groaned, toes curling as he _clenched_ around his cock. “Doesn’t even matter, Der. You feel amazing. _Fuck_ ,” the creature punctuated, barely above a whisper, biting his lip as Derek pulled out halfway and pushed back in.

               It was hypnotizing, watching his dick glide in and out of Stiles with apparent ease, the halfling’s rim clutching and dragging so sweetly around him, forced into a gape by his hard cock. In and out, in and out, coming back shinier and slicker each time with accumulating precome and expelled lube.

               “Is this good for you?” Derek asked, driving in with harder, faster jabs of his cock, matching the crescendo of the halfling’s gratified sounds.              

               Stiles’ lashes fluttered, one of his arms curling behind his head to grab the back of the couch, the leather squeaking in his grip. “Aw yeah. Gonna come. Gonna come the second you hit my prostate.”

               Derek adjusted his depth, his angle, his posture. He wanted to find that special spot that made Stiles react like he had touched a live wire, body wracked with spasms of pleasure. His knuckles brushed the Nephilim’s weeping, stiff cock, only for Stiles to bat his hand away, shove it down towards his sac.

               “I’m close. Can you feel them?” The hybrid’s hand covered his, bending his fingers, coaxing him to play with Stiles’ balls. “They’re getting tight, drawn-up. I just need a little more.” He ended on a sharp inhale, moaning as Derek twisted and fondled his sac.

               Derek nearly thanked God—then hurriedly thought better of it—when he (finally) struck Stiles’ prostate, the little hellion keening, face morphing into a pleasured grimace, body tensing.

               “ _There. Rightthereohfuck._ ” His voice cracked on a high-pitched whine. “Harder. Fucking _pound_ me. Give me everything.”

               Derek abandoned the last of his restraint, jackhammering into Stiles, flesh slapping, the little halfling jostled forward with every brutal impact. His hole clamped tighter around Derek until the Nephilim cried out, cock jerking before unloading spurt upon spurt of gluey come. Stiles’ orgasm pulsed around him, soft insides clinging and milking him with rhythmic contractions until he spilled as well.

               Stiles’ legs sagged back to the cushions, thighs splayed and baring his debauchery. Derek sank to his previous seat on the couch, leaning forward heavily as his body calmed, his breaths normalized. His cock felt warm, swollen, and sensitive from use, and at the same time, uncomfortably cold as the air swept over the moisture coating it. It was inevitable that his eyes strayed next to Stiles, his dusky hole puffy and open, winking every so often with the aftershocks of orgasm to show the viscous cream that Derek had pumped into him.

               The half-human sat up, slipping one leg behind Derek’s back and the other overtop his thighs, stretching with a purred groan. Stiles dipped forward to peck his shoulder, slender fingers stroking the fine hair at his nape and the strong tendon that framed the top edge of his wing. Derek shivered.

               “Did that hurt?” the halfling mumbled, having scooted closer to mouth stinging kisses into Derek’s neck, still _caressing_ his wings.

               “No.”

               Stiles snorted. “Liar. You flinched. When I touched you _here_.” The hybrid prodded the hinge of his wing, where it rooted to the bony slant of his shoulder blade.

               Derek winced. “It’s a little tender,” he admitted.

               “From keeping them hidden the past few days.” It was a statement rather than a question, Stiles’ tone imbued with understanding. Personal experience. “It takes a lot of energy to conceal these, too.” The halfling waved towards his horns. “It’s like Wolverine, y’know? It hurts every time they come out.”  

               Derek offered a quizzical lift of his eyebrow. He had never been pop-culture savvy during _any_ century, a fact that always seemed to anguish Stiles. The halfling rolled his eyes and exhaled in a dramatic puff. “Point is, I know how it feels.”

               “It’ll go away.” Derek shrugged. The discomfort was akin to a sore muscle rather than an actual pain.

               “Get up.” Stiles patted his arm.

               “What?”

               The little creature stood and yanked at his hand with typical impatience. “I’ll give you a backrub. _God knows_ ,” Derek sent him a dark, withering look of disapproval, “you could stand to be more relaxed. Now, move that glorious ass of yours.”

               Sex had made him soft and complaisant to Stiles’ whims. He allowed the half-angel to drag him onto his feet and wipe him down with a towel summoned from nowhere. Derek grumbled at the slight chafe of the rag on his sensitive dick but gulped as Stiles ran the cloth over his own come-streaked torso and between his legs. The couch would probably need reupholstered, Derek speculated with a hint of guilt, what with the celestial and infernal bodily fluids seeping into the leather.

               The cushions were still warm from their bodies as he lowered onto his belly, the leather sticking and latching onto his bare skin. Stiles straddled his lower back, his weight insubstantial but comforting, grounding.   

               With his face pressed into the padding, Derek slurred, “You really don’t have to—”

               “Oh, hush,” the halfling interrupted, smoothing his thumbs along the taut, bundled base of each wing. Derek’s objections were overtaken by grunts as Stiles applied pressure to his tense tendons and cramped muscles.

               After the initial ache subsided, he began to relax into the ministrations, involuntary and guttural noises pouring out of him when Stiles dug into a strained area. The Nephilim alternated with gentler touches, sleeking and ordering his feathers, plucking the loose ones. _Grooming_ him.

               From their respective positions, he could feel Stiles’ soft cock nestled between his ass cheeks, the combination of it and Stiles’ massaging hands igniting a spark of arousal in his belly. Not urgent as it had been beforehand. It just left him warm and liquid.

               “People don’t play with your feathers much, do they?” Stiles asked, amusement audible in his voice.

               Derek flushed, glad he didn’t need an excuse to bury his face in the cushions. “No. It’s kind of…”

               After a long pause, the hybrid suggested, “Intimate?”

               “Domestic,” he clarified. “Done between close companions.”

               “Or lovers?”

               Derek weighed his words before noting, “Angels aren’t meant to have lovers.” He wasn’t sure how Stiles would receive the comment, given what he was.

               “And yet,” the half-human murmured, placing a kiss on his spine. 

               Before the silence could settle and Derek lost his nerve, he blurted, “The angel not meant to have a lover. Was it your mother or father?”

               The Nephilim might refuse to answer, but Derek didn’t think he would. Stiles had been the one to initiate this discussion, granting evidence of his soul and angelic essence, his unique status. And if not for encouraging Derek to _look_ for the former, he still would have been passing for a common demon, undetectable. To all other agents Above and Below, he still was _._

               He had been wondering why Stiles would share such a sensitive and explosive truth with him in the first place. Trust, he supposed, although it was astounding that the halfling thought he could rely on Derek so entirely after being subjected to his coldness and judgment for millennia. Perhaps loneliness, too. He imagined the gravity, the enormity, of Stiles’ secret invited alienation and unrelatability, and it seemed as though the halfling viewed him as a kindred being, a fellow misfit among peers. Confiding his true nature to Derek might’ve eased some of the burden.

               “My dad,” Stiles replied.

               Derek folded his arms beneath his face, rested his cheek against them to better speak. “I know a great number of the Heavenly host. What’s his name?” The possibility of having known Stiles’ father this entire time—since _Creation—_ made his belly quiver with a strange mix of excitement and fascination.

               “Noah. But he’s been ‘John’ for a long time. Since he became human,” Stiles mentioned offhandedly.  

               “ _Human_?” The astonishment was plain in his voice. Noah’s transgression was severe enough to warrant Elimination, but instead, he had been cast down to Earth. Stiles’ father must have been a beloved and valuable angel to deserve such leniency.

               Stiles sighed. “Well, he’s not really human. More of an angel with clipped wings. Immortal but flightless. Banished from Heaven. It’s part of his punishment, for loving my mom and creating me.”

               “Part?” Derek chewed his lip in deliberation. “Your death was meant to be the rest of his punishment.” He knew his kin; they wouldn’t tolerate an abomination of such tremendous power, born out of sin and disobedience, or the constant reminder of their Fallen brother’s trespass. They would suffer Stiles neither on Earth nor in Heaven.

               Quiet filled the room, the Nephilim’s hands whispering across his skin. He wasn’t sure he _could_ understand Stiles’ heartache. Technically, Derek’s Father was no more than his Creator, his siblings no more than a countless number of co-creations. God was not his parent, and the angels were not his family.

               He was content to let the silence linger, but eventually, Stiles continued. “My mom died giving birth to me. She made it to Heaven, so, um…my dad and I won’t see her again. He took me and fled, and we managed to dodge Heaven’s wrath for a while. Until I was seventeen. He dropped me into Hell, the only place angels wouldn’t follow, and when he returned to Earth, they ripped out his wings and stranded him there.”

               Derek grimaced at the mere thought of that agony, his own wings fluttering in sympathy. “Where’s your father now?”

               Unexpectedly, the hybrid chuckled. “Beacon Hills, actually. He’s the county sheriff. Being impervious to virtually all injury makes him a good fit for law enforcement. It’s another reason I was so anxious to take this assignment. It’s a delicate endeavor, visiting him. I have to make sure I’m not followed or seen so that no one puts two and two together about my identity. A while back, Deaton remodeled my old man’s place to keep me hidden when I stop by.”

               “I wish I knew him. He sounds like an angel I’d actually care to meet.”

               “I think he’d like you, too, sourpuss,” Stiles acknowledged, combing through his hair. “So, any more burning questions?”

               “Just one.” For the moment. He suspected it would take decades of barraging Stiles with questions to quench his curiosity, and tonight, he just wanted to enjoy his partner’s company.           

               “Okay, shoot. I’m dying of suspense here.” The halfling knocked his knee against Derek’s ribs to spur him onwards. 

               “I understand that you became a demon to survive, that you assimilated to blend in. _I do_ ,” he vowed. Lending compassion to a demon. The notion would’ve been laughable to him three days ago. Only now did he understand Stiles’ frustration; the halfling had been trying for the last several millennia to teach him that things were often far more complicated than they appeared. “Demons aren’t born like humans, or created like angels. They’re _made_ , forged in Hellfire and suffering. I think the angelic essence around your soul kept it intact, protected it. But it couldn’t disguise the outward manifestation of your damnation.”

               The hellion huffed. “It’s okay, Derek. Just _ask,_ ” he insisted with a pointed flick to Derek’s ear.  

               Luckily for the little brat, Derek was too sluggish to upend him and send his bony ass tumbling to the floor. “What did you do to get your eyes and your horns?”

               “ _There_ it is,” Stiles announced with a sigh of relief. “You know what I do. I propagate sin and immorality, encourage vice and indulgence. But I don’t _kill_ or _maim_ or _torture_ or incite chaos—a little mischief from time to time, but that’s it.”

               Derek laughed, his body rumbling. Stiles faltered above him. “That reaction seems inappropriate,” the hybrid mentioned.

               “You’re a deliberate underachiever. I could never understand why a demon as smart and diabolical as you—” Stiles giggled, assuredly pleased by Derek’s description, “—was stuck in such a menial department. You’ve been holding back this entire time, minimizing attention.” The subsequent thought that crossed Derek’s mind impressed him as much as it frightened him. If Stiles actually _applied_ himself—the potential consequences didn’t bear thinking about. A Nephilim serving Hell could be just as disastrous as an Antichrist.

               “That’s a bingo.” The half-angel waited, presumably for a sign of recognition, before releasing a disgusted and disappointed expulsion of air. “Dude, you need to watch a movie every now and then.” Stiles rolled his sharp knuckles into the knotted muscle below Derek’s shoulder blades. (Despite the creature’s infuriating coos, the sound Derek made did _not_ resemble a “wailing kitten.” His responding growl did little to discourage Stiles’ joy.)

               The hellion smothered his sniggers by scattering kisses across Derek’s shoulders. “I mostly work petty jobs,” he added. “Soccer moms cheating on their diets, businessmen fucking their secretaries, teenagers shoplifting lipgloss from the mall. I let the more jeopardous cases slip through my fingers.”

               Derek snorted. “Like the Apocalypse?”

               The half-human laughed. “Yeah, cases like that.”

               “And if the underlords discover that you’re working against Hell’s major interests?”               

               “You worried about me, babe?” Stiles teased, squeezing his hips a few times. “I’m a being of near-supreme power, if the stories are true. Next to God and Lucifer, I’m kind of untouchable.” He knew that Stiles had sat upright, his weight redistributing. “Shit, that was kind of a douche-y thing to say, wasn’t it?”

               “It made me a little hard,” Derek confessed, hiding his hot cheeks in the leather.

               Stiles scoffed. “You _scoundrel_. I’m shocked and appalled by your nymphomaniacal tendencies. Wherever did you learn such bawdy behavior?”   

               Derek shot an unimpressed glance in the creature’s direction. “Watch the taunting. Or I might not be so inclined to do you a favor.”

               “Oooh. What favor would that be?” The halfling asked, his voice gaining a sly, playful edge as he skimmed a discarded feather over Derek’s skin, raising goosebumps.

               “I could go see your mother for you.”

               The weight on his back vanished as Stiles crawled off of him. Derek sat up to meet the hybrid, the seal between his skin and the leather cushions breaking reluctantly and leaving behind a prickling sting. He knew Stiles would require his full attention for this particular conversation. It was a hefty offer to make with such nonchalance.

               With his legs tucked underneath himself, Stiles assumed the most sedate and focused demeanor Derek had ever seen in regards to the little creature. “Are you serious?”

               “Time isn’t an issue for anyone involved. As long as I keep the visits sporadic and infrequent, it’s not uncommon for angels to stroll through humans’ personal Heavens. I could serve as a go-between for you and your father.”

               Stiles’ face crumpled, his bottom lip wobbling, his forehead creasing. It took Derek several seconds to realize that he was trying to _cry_ , but his lack of eyes and associated ocular structures (lacrimal glands) was preventing him.

               Tears—even unformed ones—were not what Derek was expecting. He reached out with a tentative hand to comfort the halfling but instead found his arms full of a not-weeping Nephilim, bony forearms wrapped around his neck. Hugging him. The very concept had always seemed overrated, but receiving one turned out to be rather affecting. It was a different sort of touch, nonsexual but still intimate, conveying safety and love and familiarity.

               “It’s too dangerous.” The half-angel’s words were muffled against his hair.

               Guided by instinct, Derek’s arms circled the hellion, gathered him close. “Not any more dangerous than pretending to avert the Apocalypse by accident.”

               “I think we’ve established that I can take more of a punch than you can, sweetness,” Stiles argued.

               Derek chucked deep in his chest. “I’ve been doing covert work on Earth and in Heaven since before you were born. I can handle it.”  

               “Are you sure you wanna take this risk?”    

               “Yes.”

               The hybrid withdrew from Derek’s shoulder, their eyes meeting. “Really sure? Ready-to-have-your-wings-torn-out-and-then-be-thrown-a-gazillion-feet-down-to-Earth-if-you’re-caught sure?”

               For an angel of his insignificance and negative standing within the host, his punishment for consorting with a Nephilim and withholding its identity and location from Heaven would not be exile and a wing-ectomy. It would be Elimination. But the sweet creature didn’t need to know that.  

               “Yes,” Derek repeated. Without hesitation.  

               Stiles ducked back into his neck, sniffling. “You’re a goddamn miracle, Der.”

               He didn’t bother to reproach the halfling.


End file.
